solo living--scary and spectacular

I had my first truly frightening “oh my gosh, I’m freaking out, I’m in a foreign country, and I’m screwed” moment the other day. It was Saturday, August 15th, which is an important religious holiday for Madrid’s Catholic population. Naturally, everyone took to the streets to drink. I joined my roommate, Simon, and his girlfriend, Camille, to witness the festivities in La Latina (a funky neighborhood south of the city center). After they each enjoyed a beer and I, a sangria, we sat down for some tapas at an outdoor bar. The sun was setting; the party lights were brightening; the old Spanish ladies were dancing: all was going as expected. Suddenly, I felt horrible--no, beyond horrible. My head crashed to the table, and I could not pick it back up. I don't know how to explain the loss of vision I experienced, except by comparing it to (I imagine) a LSD trip gone horribly array. Without focused vision, I lost all sense of balance. Cue uncontrollable sweating. My face suddenly burned up and then turned completely pale (as witnessed by Simon and Camille). I didn't want to vomit, eat, drink, sleep, or poop; all I could imagine doing was fainting in the street. Simon asked the waiter to show me the way to the restroom, but I could not even see--let alone walk. Simon had to support all my weight, as I struggled to see straight and make my way inside without stumbling over or passing out. After ten or fifteen minutes of awkwardly balancing between the sink (to splash water on my face) and the toilet (just in case), I suddenly felt much better. I still have no idea what happened. I have never felt so terrible, sickly, out of control, and helpless. I felt like I had been drugged; perhaps someone roofied the sangria? Camille thinks the episode was caused by extremely low blood sugar. As a medical student, she probably knows more than me. But if anyone asks, I was roofied, at a crazy party, in Spain, with Lindsay Lohan.

All I can say is THANK GOODNESS FOR SIMON AND CAMILLE. They took extremely good care of me all night and will one day make amazing parents--which is not at all as ridiculous as it sounds because, even though they’re two years my juniors, they have been dating for four solid years and Camille is studying to become a midwife. They are super cute and in love (reference pictures below):

But really. They are so cute they make me want to vomit. And then cry. And then maybe take a nap. Nevertheless, I don't feel the usual loneliness that tends to settle when I'm surrounded by adorable couples. I’m actually basking in the freedom and alone time that this fellowship has afforded me. I feel completely free to just be (shout out to Veena--she’ll know why). Although I might pass an entire day without seeing anyone I know, I find it difficult to feel lonely when surrounded by the constantly changing noises, smells (mostly offensive), sights and other sensations provided by the city. Who knows if my current love for lonesomeness will last beyond the first month, but for now, I will continue to embrace it. Considering that my itinerary places me in the company of “big” cities throughout the entire year, I figure it won’t be long until anonymity becomes a familiar feeling.

To illustrate the beauty of anonymity in Madrid, I present to you the following scene:

Sunday night. 10:35pm. Empty crepería.

...empty, that is, except for me...

I sit in the back corner, scribbling down my most recent experiences on a few postcards, which I had stealthily purchased around the corner so that I’d have an excuse to sit down at said crepería and “work on my correspondence.” The waitress, already slightly annoyed that I sat down, waits for me to order the expected coffee or smoothie, but I am way too cool for that. I point down at my menu: “Quiero number 37” -- translation: “that’s right lady, I’m not here to play games. You wipe that smirk off your pretty little face and bring me a thirty seven: crepe, nutella, bananas, whipped cream, crushed cookie, hot fudge, ice cream and all.” When she finally brought me the gastronomic masterpiece, I was so grateful that I flashed her an adorable smile and jokingly said “es mi cena, hahaha” (it’s my dinner, hahaha). She didn’t find it funny.

Actually she probably just didn’t understand. Despite the typical, week one vocabulary lesson in middle school Spanish (breakfast: desayuno, lunch: almuerzo, dinner: cena), people don’t eat dinner here. In fact, they don’t really eat at all. They just smoke...at least a pack a day. And if they forget their rolling paper and are forced to intake actual calories instead of smoke, you can bet they’ll go for ham--in a sandwich, on some toast, atop a salad, or on its own. ALL THEY EAT IS HAM. I HATE HAM. I AM A “VEGETARIAN” (don’t ask about the quotes, damn you). THUS...SUBSTANTIAL REASON FOR ME TO EAT DINNER AT THE CREPERIA, THANK YOU VERY MUCH!

I’m not being defensive...why would I be feeling defensive? Maybe it’s because after I downed my late night crepe, I headed straight to Maoz--my new, favorite VEGETARIAN eatery--which serves all-you-can-eat falafel, pita, and toppings for 4 measly euro. Who could pass up such a deal? I don’t know enough Spanish to be picky about chickpeas versus coleslaw, so I told him to throw all the possible toppings inside my falafel sandwich. I quickly downed the overflowing pita while sitting at the corner window; I wonder whether the people watching was better for me, or for those who witnessed my face turn a bright red and begin sweating profusely as I bit down on the spicy salsa (topping #8--I made a mental note). After wiping off my face and mouth (and lap), I felt completely satisfied. I had a “crepe #37” and a “pita con todo” sitting in my stomach, and no one was the wiser. I may look like a 120-pound-Keanu-Reeves-but-cuter, but I can eat crepes and falafel like Neo loves Trinity--secretly, and with passion.

That, my friends, is why I love the solo life in Madrid.

I might have to change the subject of my Watson fellowship from “Cubing Across Cultures: Documenting the Rubik’s Resurgence” to “Consuming Across Cultures: Documenting my Dinner’s Resurgence.” But hey, the fellowship organizers are all about flexibility, right? They should be chill.

So that was last night. Tonight I stay in and write this blog. And to answer the question on all of your minds, yes I did have another partner in crime tonight (Naomi wipe that dirty grin off your face). Instead of the healthy (I swear) cookies that I blogged with last time, I decided to get down and dirty with some store-bought ice cream. In a brief moment of self-flattery (or deprecation, depending on your pop culture leanings), I realized that I’m a lot like Carrie Bradshaw. Just exchange junk food for cigarettes, and we’re practically indistinguishable.

I guess I could also use a real job...and a sick apartment...and endless wardrobe changes....and attractive friends (sorry guys)....

¡BESOS!

until next time,

sachi